


(Turk Two-)Step Into Christmas

by chiralchaos



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Bittersweet, Canon What Canon, Christmas Decorations, Costa del Sol (Compilation of FFVII), Drinking, Family Issues, Fluff, Found Family, M/M, Melancholy, New Years, President Shinra Being An Asshole, Turks on vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28225893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiralchaos/pseuds/chiralchaos
Summary: "A lovely thing about Christmas is that it's compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together."Holiday season for Rufus and the Turks. Alternatively: Tseng has a bad history of failed Christmases, and maybe it's time for a good one at last.A series of events written for Shinra Holiday Week 2020, featuring stories of hope, found family, and one overly large stuffed chocobo.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng, Tseng/Sephiroth (implied)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 42





	1. Deck The Halls

The festive season in Midgar is cold and busy, people hunched over hot drinks waiting for trains, hats tugged down over their ears as they window shop, breath steaming in the air as they rush to and from work. A lot of the people who work in the city commute in and out, meaning that as the days pass in the run up to the end of the year the streets become less packed, roads less congested. Nowhere is this more apparent than in Shinra HQ, where day by day there are fewer cars in the car parks, fewer lights on in offices, and fewer people to greet in the corridors.

Basement Three is no exception.

The Turks’ office is modest in its decoration, which is fitting for a group of people who are all too used to the habit of not drawing attention to themselves. One of them brought a small wooden tree in which sits largely ignored near the door, and there is a small collection of impersonally-written Christmas cards sat around the base - Elena hasn’t been with them for long, and no one has the heart to tell her she doesn’t need to feel obliged to keep them all.

(Most of the cards are inter-departmental and inoffensive, although their boss made no bones about destroying the one that came from the Science Department the moment Rude had opened it. Elena didn‘t ask questions; Reno and Rude didn‘t have to).

Tree and accompanying cards aside there is only one other decoration in the room, and that is a tattered wooden moogle that sits on Reno’s desk. Every year without fail it comes out to sit next to his monitor, looking forlorn with its scuffed wings and chipped pom, and every year Reno gets oddly defensive whenever anyone suggests getting it restored or at least repainted. The lack of decorations surprises his colleagues as he is otherwise very vocal in his celebration of the season, but truth is he doesn’t need to decorate his workspace much when he spends most of his time at Rude’s anyway.

Rude, in sharp contrast to his partner, knows how to deck the halls. He is a professional and he knows better than to put up anything identifying on the outside of his apartment, so there are no lights on the windows or wreath on the door. Step inside however and for one month of the year it is like stepping into another world. Intricate snowflakes hang from the ceiling, some cut delicately from paper, some plastic and covered in silver glitter, and while there are only a few of them they are enough to catch the light as they gently rotate on their threads. There is a wooden calendar next to his TV which can be adjusted to count down the days to new year (which of course gets updated every morning without fail), and even the plain mug he normally drinks his coffee from has been joined by a bigger red one emblazoned with the words _“Oh Christmas Tea, Oh Christmas Tea”_ \- joke’s on them, he thinks, as he uses this one exclusively for hot chocolate instead. Taking pride of place in the living room though is an immaculately decorated tree, his height before it goes on a stand and easily half of him across, decked with fake snow, soft white lights and lightweight wooden decorations. He takes pride in his decorating skills but each year he is sure to get the balance of the tree alarmingly wrong - too many lights clustered on the left, too many wooden stars on the right, and this is because he knows that when Reno comes around he will wait for Rude to leave the room before he quickly tries to fix it all as fast as he can. To this day Reno has no clue that Rude gets it wrong deliberately, wants to give the red head a chance to feel like he’s contributed to the masterpiece of a perfectly decorated home. He fixes his partner a drink in The Mug and kicks his feet back, reveling in how complete it feels when they’re both there together.

As for their boss, it would be easy to assume that he doesn’t celebrate the season, and this wouldn’t be entirely incorrect. It’s not offensive to any of his own beliefs, and it doesn’t impede his work in any way (as he has access to the office once everyone’s gone home anyway), he just doesn’t have any sentimental attachment to it. He doesn’t put any decorations up because there’s already a beaten up old moogle on one of the desks, and he doesn’t display any cards because Elena keeps them all for the office. Instead he lets himself enjoy hearing Rude humming festive tunes quietly to himself when he walks into the office of a morning, or the taste of the gingerbread the new recruit has made while she is still so desperately trying to please everyone. His own apartment is more functional than anything else and he doesn’t do much there other than sleep, so there is no point stringing up lights or decorating a tree to welcome him home as it would just be more work for him to have to take it all down a month later.

What he doesn’t know though is that there will be a day in the near future when he does come home, exhausted from work, and there will be a photo pinned to the fridge with a magnet that will spell the season out to him. The photo in question will be of one Rufus Shinra, vice president of Shinra Inc., somewhat inebriated in Costa Del Sol. He will be surrounded by the glow of Christmas lights and cuddled up to a giant stuffed chocobo, and both will have matching Christmas hats, and he will be smiling down the camera, just for him.

He doesn’t decorate, but when a cold and lonely Christmas day comes and goes, and he comes back home to a glass of red wine and melancholy Christmas blues on the radio, the photo on the fridge will be enough to light him up again.


	2. Sweater Weather

“Rufus will be spending Christmas in Costa Del Sol this year,”

Tseng barely manages to hide a confused frown at the blunt statement. The President had called him in for a meeting regarding the “Vice President’s Christmas Agenda” and he isn’t sure, based on the President’s wording, if this is Rufus’s choice or not. It’s certainly the first he’s heard of it.

“I have a business contact based there and I’m sending him in my place,” the President continues, “It will be good for publicity.”

 _“It will be good for you,”_ Tseng thinks cynically, as he knows full well that the other man’s new bit on the side has been staying in the city for the season, and he can imagine he will relish the thought of not having his errant son under his feet to interrupt the _celebrations_.

“I’ll be having him back, of course.” It’s like he’s read his mind. “There’ll be a dinner for him to attend between the eves. I will be hosting.”

It is at this point Tseng becomes certain that Rufus _doesn't_ know about these plans, or he wouldn’t have heard the end of it by now. A Christmas in Costa Del Sol sounds pretty good, he thinks. Having to cut it short and come home to dinner with his father and his plus one, much less appealing. He finds himself thinking of what he can do to soften the blow.

Maybe something shows in his eyes, or maybe it’s on his lips, but whatever it is he is convinced the President sees it.

“You won’t be going with him,” he says, and the gloat in his voice makes Tseng want to punch him, “You’ll send the others. I need you to stay in Midgar for me.”

No he doesn’t.

“What will I be doing, Sir?” Tseng asks.

“You’ll be on call,” the President says with a disinterested wave of his hand. “I want you to be reachable around the clock. I’ll call you if I need you.”

And Tseng knows exactly what that means. It means that he is going to spend the next four days tied to the capital, alone without even Reno and Rude to keep him ticking over, rueing the season and everything it stands for. The festivities at the end of the year don’t mean much to him but circumstances mean he has spent many of the previous Christmases alone, and despite what he likes to believe he isn’t strictly the best company for himself. There is a certain quiet contentment he gets from watching the others celebrate, from noticing Rude slipping out of the office suspiciously early to get last minute shopping done, or watching Reno trying to find the most strategic spot to hang mistletoe.

It means he won’t get to see Rufus relaxing with a warm drink in hand, which is something that could happen any day of the year but doesn’t normally feature the gentle glow of multicoloured lights softening the sharpness of his jaw line, brightening his eyes and throwing colour on him when he is normally so careful to be seen as straightforward, ice cold, black and white.

“Certainly, Sir,” he says dutifully, when there are a million other things he wishes he could say instead.

“Get your Turks together. I’ll be informing my son. They’ll leave in the morning.”

~~~

Neither Reno nor Rude take the news particularly well, especially at such short notice. 

“We’d best be able to claim expenses,” is Reno’s biggest takeaway, “That is gonna be a _lot_ of sunscreen, yo.”

“And I hope you’re not expecting us to pick up the tab either,”. Rude is particularly displeased; Tseng knows he had plans.

“There won’t be a tab,” he says, careful but stern, “You’re going to be on the job.”

“We’re gonna be glorified babysitters,” Rude responds, taking the other men by surprise as neither of them ever expect him to talk back. “You’d best make sure there’s a tab.”

Tseng sighs. None of them are happy about the situation, but selfishly he wonders if they know just what it means to him. Selfishly, he wants to ask them if they do. Alas, perhaps to his own detriment, he is nothing but professional.

“I can’t guarantee a tab,” he says, “But you’ll get double pay. I’ll make sure of it.”

Rude is quiet for a moment longer and the room is tense, but after a silent standoff he eventually shakes his head and turns to leave.

“Guess we’d better get packing then, huh?” he says as he heads for the door. If they were left at all uncertain of Rude’s feelings towards the news, it is made crystal clear in how he slams the door shut behind him. Allowing himself a deep sigh, Tseng slumps his shoulders and turns to Reno.

“I know this isn’t ideal,” he begins, but Rude’s earlier bitterness is contrasted by his partner’s understanding.

“It’s not ideal for any of us,” Reno responds, “But hey, our line of work rarely is, huh. You’re not allowed to go, are you?“

Reno always knows so much more than he lets on, even if Tseng doesn’t know how.

“The President needs me here,” is his answer. He doesn’t make eye contact with the red-head, which in itself speaks volumes. Reno raises an eyebrow.

“ _Sure_ he does. You gonna be ok?”

Tseng wants to answer honestly, he really does, but what part of this has anything to do with what he wants?

“I’ll be fine,” he says, and he finally looks up when Reno claps him on the arm. He forces a tight smile, one that is reassuringly mirrored.

“We’ll be back before you know it, chief,” 

~

Later that evening he returns to the office, more thoroughly dejected than he has been for months, but something on the desk catches his eye. He looks around as he closes the door, gentle frown on his face, and approaches cautiously. Upon closer inspection it’s a flat rectangular package, wrapped neatly in purple tissue paper. A handwritten note sits on top, written in familiar scrolling cursive.

“Don’t get too cold without me” is all it says, which piques Tseng’s interest even more. He opens the package carefully (unfolding the paper rather than tearing it, of course), and out of it falls a black turtleneck, fine brushed cotton, long sleeves, immaculately folded. It’s one of Rufus’s own, he recognises, although whether he identifies it by sight or by the faint scent of the other man‘s cologne he can‘t be sure.

(he makes a point of trying it on when he gets in that evening, amused to find that somehow it fits almost perfectly. He takes it off again straight away though, folding it neatly for when the Vice President comes home.)


	3. Activate Combat Mode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tseng confronts the Ghost of Christmas Past

He hit the ground hard but caught himself on his hands just in time, gritting his teeth against the pain as his knees collided hard with the floor. He could feel the other man’s arrogant smirk behind him, not needing to see it to know it was there. If there was anything he had learned in their years of training with the First Class SOLDIER though, it was that that arrogance would some day be his downfall. Sephiroth never noticed the materia set into the hilt of the other man’s sword, didn’t see it start to glow, and was so busy gloating that it was only thanks to his mako enhancement that he managed to dive out of the way in time, razor-sharp crystals from levelled-up Ice materia skimming his cheek and exploding behind him. He turned back, eyebrows raised in surprise, to find Tseng on his feet again, a smile on his own face.

“You didn’t think I was all sword no action, did you?” the Turk asked, and before Sephiroth could even laugh at the other man’s statement he was forced back, his own blade held up in defence against another barrage of spells. He began to laugh as he found himself on the back foot, and on the offence in front of him Tseng began to grin too.

It had begun three years ago when Tseng, at a loose end on Christmas day, took himself to the HQ training room. He hadn’t been expecting to find anyone else in there so was surprised when, barely an hour into his training session, the legendary SOLDIER appeared decked in gym gear. Without the iconic coat, the tall boots, and with his hair tied up and back, Sephiroth had appeared so much more human than Tseng had ever seen him before. They had met before, of course, the Turks and SOLDIER occasionally working together, but only ever at a respectable distance. They had never really interacted off-duty, but as the only two people on the entire floor it seemed rude not to.

How _“It would be rude not to”_ turned into _“Let’s see how a Turk fares against a SOLDIER”_ , Tseng would never know.

“I’m a Turk,” he had said dryly, “We’re hardly trained to fight SOLDIERs.”

“And I’ve never gone up against a Turk,” Sephiroth had answered. “Who’s to say you haven’t got anything to teach me?”

~

That first day they trained hand to hand for hours. Tseng had more bruises than he could count, and by the end of it had to be held up for a long while by a laughing SOLDIER to make sure he could still support his own weight despite being so exhausted. They had gone out for drinks together afterwards, the streets of Midgar mostly empty as most people had their own friends, their own families to spend the day with. Sephiroth’s regular companions had gone back to Banora for the holidays, he had explained, so he was used to spending the day by himself each year. Tseng in turn explained that the other Turks all had other places to be, or at the very least other plans, and as family was difficult he had opted to stay behind in Midgar by himself instead. The two men agreed to meet again the same time the following year if they were both at loose ends again, and had parted ways at the end of the night both feeling lighter than they had before.

~

Where the first year saw them training hand to hand, they had both come armed for the second. Tseng had spent the year training with various weapons and had turned up wielding a short blade, while Sephiroth had with him the kind of standard-issue sword Tseng had seen Third Classes carry on missions.

“Why do you never bring that legendary sword of yours out to play?” Tseng asked, eyeing up the simple weapon in the other man’s hands as he tied his hair up in a rough bun.

“Masamune?” Sephiroth asked, tipping his head slightly, seemingly amused, “We’re _training_ , I’m not trying to _kill_ you. Unless you’re expecting to come up against it any time soon?”

“I’m a Turk,” Tseng responded. He picked up his own sword, bouncing it against his palm a few times until he was happy with the grip. “It’s my job to be prepared for all eventualities.”

Sephiroth kept that same amused smile on his face. Tseng’s grip tightened for a split second before he charged forward to wipe it off.

The first year they had gone out for drinks after, but the second year they went back to Tseng’s.

~

“I thought you were prepared for all eventualities?” Sephiroth breathed. The wall was cold against Tseng’s back, but the SOLDIER’s skin was so, so hot against his own.

“Who said I wasn’t prepared?” Tseng responded. He cocked an eyebrow, and Sephiroth laughed low against his neck.

~

The third year they didn’t even bother making any formal plans. Tseng had turned up simply knowing that the other man would be there waiting for him, and when they fought it was almost choreographed, Tseng learning how to avoid Sephiroth’s stronger attacks (although he knew the SOLDIER was pulling his punches whenever they trained) and Sephiroth learning the Turk’s tells, being able to spot when he telegraphed his next moves. He knew how he fought with swift punches and kicks, and with perfectly measured sword slashes, but what he hadn’t anticipated was how talented the other man would be with magic. He had only narrowly avoided an Ice attack aimed with calculated precision, and when he had recovered from the volley of offensive spells that followed he ran a finger along his own cheek, red streaking across his pale skin.

“Not many people can say they’ve made a First Class bleed,” he said, eyebrows raised, sounding both surprised and impressed. Tseng, catching his breath from the assault he’d just launched, raised an eyebrow himself.

“There’s lots of things not many people could say they’ve done with you,” he responded with a sly smirk, and he would never forget the sight of the other man blushing.

~

No one was sure what to make of their friendship, and if they suspected they did not say. What it meant is that the next year, when Nibelheim burned, Tseng burned too, and there was no one who understood enough to see it. He didn’t know why the other man never reached out to him. He didn’t know why he never saw it coming. He didn’t know why he wasn’t able to stop it, to intervene, to talk him down from whatever he thought was happening and pull him back to reality. None of it made sense to him, and he lost track of the hours, whole nights he lost poring over what he must have missed. He didn’t believe the email that circulated the Shinra inboxes, saying the SOLDIER had been killed in action. He didn’t believe the one about Zack either, knowing that there must have been more to it.

He had come to Midgar to settle, to find a place to be after a childhood of endless moving around, to find friends, a family, and at what people had told him was the best time of year he had finally found himself a tradition. The year Nibelheim burned though it had taken that tradition with it and left him with nothing all over again. He was invited out to a formal get-together with Veld that first year, which he turned down without hesitation or guilt. Each year after that he learned that Rude had been hosting parties at his, but he found reasons not to go to those too. He didn’t even wish them Merry Christmas anymore. All he wanted was one thing, and that thing was gone. They could keep their lights, he thought bitterly, it would just be another day for him from now on.

~~~

Rufus has been in Costa Del Sol for three days now, along with Reno and Rude. Elena is at home with family - at least that’s what she tells them, although she has to know that they know otherwise. It is Christmas morning, and just like every Christmas for the last five years Tseng had fully anticipated waking up feeling empty. What he hadn’t anticipated however, was feeling alone.

He feels alone.

And as he lies in bed he thinks on this, and there is a rush of something in his blood. He feels alone because there is no one around, and because there is no one around he feels … lonely. Not empty, not despondent, not hollow and bitter and closed to the world, but just _incredibly_ alone. He wonders what his fellow Turks are doing, if they‘re even awake at this hour or if they‘re still sound asleep, if Reno‘s dreams have had him up all night or if Rude is making them breakfast already and what it would be. He looks at the sweater hung up opposite the bed and wonders how Rufus spent his night, and if he is sat up thinking of him too, _missing_ him too.

He hasn’t thought about anyone else on Christmas for a very long time, and despite being somewhat confused at his own mind, he smiles wryly to himself. He turns to slide his legs out of bed, places his feet flat on the cold floor, and leans forward for a moment, rolling out his shoulders. Finally he takes a deep breath and sighs it out, running a hand through his untied hair and nodding, even though no one can see him.

“Right,” he murmurs, still smiling, “It’s probably about time anyway.”

~

His feet lead him in a different direction this year, old tradition in a new location. The corridors are as empty as they always are at this time of year and he doesn’t see another soul on his way, and of course the training hall is empty as well when he turns up. Who would be in here on Christmas day anyway? He swipes his card for entry and lets the security doors close behind him, turning to the console nearby and pressing a few buttons, tweaking some settings. He casts his jacket to the floor and ties his hair up, stretches his arms across his chest, first the right and then the left, and cracks his neck once on either side. There is a crackle on the edge of his vision as the world changes around him, and he turns to find his old Christmas companion stood in the middle of the room. It’s been a long time since he’s seen him in anything other than old photographs, official documents. He has the glint in his eye. He has the smirk on his lips. He has masamune in hand, which is ultimately what keeps Tseng grounded.

“Sephiroth,” Tseng says curtly by way of greeting.

“Turk,” is the reply; it is what’s on his security card after all. Tseng imagines the word “Director” on his lips - he likes to think he’d be proud if he knew. He rolls his shoulders, steps back with one foot and lowers his centre of gravity. His voice is solemn.

“Come at me,” he says quietly, and he feels the adrenaline surge as the SOLDIER does exactly that.

It is a battle of evasion, of course it is, and it was never going to be anything different. He knows he can’t afford to be hit by the sword so he keeps his distance, stays light on his feet. None of the blows from his own sword land because of course they don’t - Sephiroth knows how he fights with a sword. None of his spells connect either but of course, the SOLDIER has had years of data to draw from with how he uses magic too.

They dance around each other seemingly endlessly, but the difference is that as Tseng starts to falter, starts to breathe heavier, starts to miss his footing, Sephiroth only continues to power on tirelessly. It is this imbalance, this inhuman advantage that ultimately leads to Tseng stumbling back first, then tripping entirely, and he is then too distracted by evading a Lightning spell from his spot on the floor to see the tip of the sword coming towards him. It‘s too late to dodge.

Funny, getting run through by masamune isn’t as painful as he thought it would be. He can imagine it would hurt like a bitch in real life though.

With Tseng seemingly defeated Sephiroth smiles darkly, and masamune fizzles out of existence. Tseng doesn't take his eyes off him though, and slowly gets back to his feet. The SOLDIER‘s expression freezes.

“Guess you don’t have the data for someone surviving that then,” Tseng says, and he narrows his eyes, “You should be prepared. It might happen someday.” And while the figure before him is still frozen, he raises the gun he has strapped to his leg. They never fought with guns. The SOLDIER seems to glitch.

“All sword, no action,” Tseng murmurs to himself, leveling the gun in line with the other man’s forehead. The two of them freeze in position, Sephiroth not knowing what happens now, Tseng letting himself feel victorious for just a few more seconds. Eventually though he sighs, lowers the gun and hits the “STOP” button on the wall.

He turns his back as the VR figure dissolves behind him, old friend fragmenting into splinters of colour and light that seem to evaporate into the air around him. His hand is heavy on the console, and his shoulders are heavy as they slump down, but something distant in his chest is lighter than it has been for a long time. For years.

He finds himself humming quietly to himself as he walks the corridors, heading up for a shower before going back down to their office in the basement. He checks his work phone and sees there are no messages there waiting for him. He types out a quick one of his own to the Turks in Costa Del Sol:

“Morning update. Anything to report?”

But after a moment he stares at the words, and realises something is missing. He sends a follow up within seconds:

“Also,

“Merry Christmas.”


	4. Costa Del Christmas

“It’s so _warm_!”

“It’s Costa Del Sol, what did you expect?”

“It’s also the end of the year, smartass, I thought it’d be a _bit_ cold, y’know?”

“No, because I thought to check the forecast ahead. We good to disembark? You ready back there, VP?”

Reno and Rude unbuckle and climb out of the cockpit of the chopper, Reno flapping the bottom of his shirt to encourage airflow while Rude moves to the side of the vehicle to see Rufus out. The Vice President steps off and sweeps his hair back, eyes adjusting to the blinding sunlight, and like Reno it’s clear he wasn’t quite anticipating the heat either. Jumping out not a foot behind him is Dark, who shakes herself out vigorously and begins to stretch now that she is no longer stuck in a chopper cabin. Her tentacle sways gently from side to side, almost trying to be a fan, and Rufus scratches the back of her neck reassuringly.

“And so it begins,” Rude murmurs under his breath as the first few eager characters appear with fancy cameras in hand. Rufus purses his lips and Reno is at his side in an instant.

“Want us to get rid of them?” he asks quietly, turning his head to ensure his lips can’t be read. Rufus brushes him aside and straightens the front of his coat.

“It’s part of the job, isn’t it?” he responds, equally quiet, before painting on his best game face and beginning to step off the landing pad. Reno falls into step alongside him and Rude leads the way, strolling through the quickly amassing crowd of people all wanting photos of the President’s Son, the future President of Midgar himself. 

~

Christmas in Costa Del Sol isn’t quite _right_ , Rufus thinks, shedding his coat in their rented apartment and changing out to something cooler, and that’s the only way he can put it. He’s spent Christmases at Icicle Inn where they snowboard by day and kick back by log fires at night. He’s spent Christmases in Junon, where the streets freeze and every year they turn the main square into an ice rink. Even just being in Midgar the plummeting temperatures mean an excuse for fur-lined collars and hot drinks in hand. Here at Costa Del Sol though there is no cold to turn his collar against, and there is no ice to either avoid or embrace enthusiastically. The streets are still lined with decorated trees but they are tall and tropical, and houses are still lit up but the windows are flung open wide, not frosted up and closed against the elements.

They reconvene in the shared living space, Reno having removed his jacket while Rude remains in complete uniform. He isn't happy to be here, Rufus can tell that. He wonders what it's like to have plans to actually look forward to for the holidays. He himself is just grateful to be out here, even if it's not quite what he expected.

~

Gratitude, it turns out, is not enough to sustain a man, let alone a man of Rufus's standing. It is only their third night in Costa Del Sol but he is quickly learning that beyond golden sands, endless rows of decorated palm trees and remarkably cheap cocktails the quiet resort town has very little else to offer. After the _“all important”_ business meeting his father set up on the first day - which turned out to be all of an hour long -, Rufus, Reno and Rude have been left to their own devices, and between them they’re sure they’ve peered into every shop window and tried every local delicacy the town could offer. It is this boredom that leads to Rufus’s declaration as they walk the waterfront at sunset:

_“I need that chocobo.”_

Reno turns to see him plastered against the window of an old-fashioned arcade, looking at row upon row of prizes on offer, ranging from small golden moogles to multicoloured carbuncles. Directly in front of him though is a huge stuffed chocobo, easily half his size, with a sign saying it could be won for a measly one thousand tickets. There is honestly nothing remarkable about it, and Reno goes as far as to suggest that they could just buy one, but this comment earns a glare from the Vice President that could well kill him where he stands.

“We’ve spent three days,” Rufus starts, eyes narrowed, “Getting sunburned on beaches, waiting for something fun to come along.” He looks around at Rude too, who loosens his tie uncomfortably. “I am mere hours away from walking into the ocean out of sheer boredom. Do you fancy telling your boss you let the Vice President drown himself because he was desperate for some kind of entertainment, or are you going to suck it up, play some claw machines, and win me a giant chocobo?”

Reno and Rude are silent. Rude has an expression that quite clearly says “Kill me now", but Reno, after looking between the two of them, shrugs nonchalantly.

“Count me in,” he says, and, Vice President at the helm, the three of them walk in.

The arcade is clearly dated but it is still packed, and it’s a step closer to the more familiar hustle and bustle of Midgar. Festive classics play through old tinny speakers, and children too young to be caught up in awe of the Vice President run around their legs, ducking and diving in hyperactive hide-and-seek fueled by the garishly bright and sugary drinks being offered at a counter at the back of the hall. It is Reno who saunters up to the counter first to ask if they sell anything alcoholic. The staff on duty shakes his head, but seems to change his tune when an eyebrow is raised and enough gil is slid across the bar, and not five minutes later the redhead returns with three drinks in hand and a wink on his face. Rude rolls his eyes but Rufus downs his drink in one before demanding another, and so a long night of Reno keeping up with their boss’s boss begins.

They learn that Reno’s fast reactions, even several drinks in, make him particularly adept at the five-gil pinball machines, while it turns out that Rude is surprisingly talented at the classic Whack-A-Cactaur. Rufus, meanwhile, is knocking down target after target at a water pistol challenge, and Reno whistles low when he joins him to watch him get yet another high score.

“Where’s you get that _aim_ from??” he exclaims, clearly as impressed as he is confused. Rufus smirks, shamelessly smug, and the way he looks so natural with the gun in hand - even a pretend plastic one - makes Reno second-guess everything he knows about the man.

“Your boss is a good teacher,” Rufus replies with a wink. He laughs at the redhead’s confused expression, and skips to the next shooting game. Zombies. Perfect. Reno joins him for this one and together they complete the challenge in record time, and Reno finds himself wondering why he's never thought about training with the Vice President before (although this is a thought that would probably never occur to him sober). 

Two hours, many drinks and a lot of gil later, two very inebriated grown men (and their exasperated, mostly sober, bald companion) are sauntering through an emptying arcade, draped in strip after strip of paper tickets. After another ten minutes they have traded them in, and now they are bar hopping along the waterfront, the future President of Shinra Inc. many drinks in and carting a huge stuffed toy around under his arm.

“It’s not great for keeping a low profile, Sir,” Rude tries to advise at one point, watching the other two men try to balance the fluffy yellow bird on a bar stool next to them.

“Well it’s lucky you’re good at your job then, isn’t it?” Rufus responds dismissively, and he proceeds to order another four drinks. Of course every round they’ve ordered has featured a drink for their new chocobo companion. Of course, every drink for the chocobo has gone to Reno. Rude’s only saving grace is that Costa Del Sol is so small that their bar hopping is essentially them bouncing between three different locations, and the lack of variety starts to sink in after the third or fourth loop.

It is still relatively late by the time they get back to the apartment but at least the sun hasn't started to rise yet. Rufus and Reno are both several more drinks in and even Rude has managed a couple on their way back, so while two of them crash in the shared living room Rude busies himself with getting them all something non-alcoholic prepped for the morning. It is entirely possible that Reno tries to put a Christmas hat on Dark, and when she refuses to keep it on he settles for balancing it on the chocobo’s head instead. Next thing they know they are each taking photos with it, Reno propping Rude’s shades on its beak for one shot before Rufus slings an arm around it for a selfie. By the end of the night Dark is absently chewing on one of its fluffy wings while Reno is half asleep on the couch, and Rude is forced to be the one to encourage everyone to think about getting to bed before it starts to get light. His head is already starting to ache, and he dreads to think how the others are going to feel when they wake up.

~

The morning finds Reno slumped over the breakfast bar, not unsubtle pain in the back of his head, while Rude is busy making breakfast for the three of them. Rufus is still asleep but neither of the Turks were given that luxury, Rude’s phone bleeping loudly at some ungodly hour with a message from their boss asking them for any updates. The message also bore Christmas wishes, which had stirred concern between the two of them. As Rude serves up a plate of pancakes, Reno continues thinking out loud.

“Maybe he’s just … lonely?” he attempts, the words sounding ridiculous even to himself. Their boss was a natural loner, and in truth Reno had expected him to be _happier_ with neither of them under his feet for a week.

“I don’t think it’s us that he’s missing …” Rude says quietly, as if reading his mind, and Reno frowns across at him. Rude looks tired too, even with the shades on, but he looks over them pointedly at his partner.

“Are you sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’?” Reno asks, and Rude raises an eyebrow to say _tell me I’m wrong_. Reno narrows his eyes in thought - slow as those thoughts might be at the moment - and Rude can virtually see the cogs turning. “I mean, I _have_ wondered exactly what they have so many late night meetings for …”

“Do you think your boss knows what you gossip about when he’s not around?”

Reno jumps as the Vice President walks in, and Rude stiffens up too. Neither of them know what to say, and after a moment’s stand-off Rufus bursts into laughter. “Your faces, honestly,” he says in delight as he recovers, leaving Rude to grumble under his breath while Reno tries to calm the instant blush that has come to his cheeks after being caught out. Rufus helps himself to a drink from the fridge and leans against the counter, facing them both. “What got you talking about him anyway? Did something interesting happen? Does Midgar need a new President yet?”

Rude clears his throat uncomfortably, not sure if he’s meant to laugh at the implication or not.

“He was just checking in, yo,” Reno says, “Morning report and all that official duty stuff. Told him we haven’t killed you or lost you out to sea yet so I think he’s happy enough with that.”

“I hope you told him I was still in bed recovering after our wild night out,”. It is only a slight exaggeration, as while his head is relatively clear the slightly darker circles under his eyes call back to whatever they were drinking in the last bar they visited, something too colourful and too strong that he can’t quite remember the taste of but knows he doesn’t want to taste again. “That will keep him guessing for a while, and will provide much entertainment for me when we get back.”

Reno frowns, looking troubled, and slumps with his cheek on his hand. “I don’t really want to wind him up at the moment, you know?” he says, and no, Rufus doesn’t know. Rude fills the blanks.

“He sent us a Merry Christmas this morning,” he says plainly. Seeing confusion set in deeper on the blonde’s face he continues. “Tseng doesn’t _do_ Christmas,” he explains, “So he’s either pretty cheerful today, or something’s up.”

“Which essentially means something’s up either way,” Reno finishes. Rufus is still frowning but there is the start of a smile forming on the corner of his lips, looking between the two men. He has heard tales of camaraderie between the Turks of course, but has never really seen it for himself. He’d always assumed it must be hidden very well, as he’d only seen them acting (mostly) professionally together. They’d never seemed to have anything more than a superficial working relationship, as far as Rufus was aware, so this insight makes him think.

“I never realised you cared,” he says. Reno drops his hand to the breakfast bar and looks at him deadpan.

“We care because if something’s up it’s gonna be _our_ asses on the line,” he explains.

“And we _care_ because he’s our _boss_ ,” Rude says, and his softer tone of voice speaks volumes to Rufus. The Vice President looks at him a moment longer before nodding slightly, smiling slyly to break the atmosphere.

“He’s probably just missing you both,” he says casually, dismissively. He glances around the room, the glasses still on the table, their hard-won stuffed chocobo on the floor still wearing its Christmas hat, reminding him of the night before and giving him an idea. He pushes himself away from the counter and pads back to his room, ignoring Reno’s protests as he pinches a pancake from his plate on the way out. He stops in the doorway and turns back to them, just briefly. “You could always ask him what our late night meetings are for, by the way,” he says with a wicked smirk, “It would be worth it just to see the colours he’d go.”

Leaving Reno open-mouthed and Rude with his eyebrows raised to the ceiling, he closes the door with a self-satisfied chuckle.

~~~

A couple of hours and a stretch of water away to the east, in a cold and rainy Midgar, the Director of the Turks is sat humming some festive tune to himself, taking advantage of the empty office to get some work done. He isn’t used to feeling festive, and he especially isn’t used to the feeling of missing people quite so acutely, and the two alien feelings combined have left him with a strange energy, a low-key buzz in his veins that has him checking dates on a calendar and quite looking forward the idea of being surrounded by his colleagues again, chaotic and calamitous as they are.

His phone chirps and he glances over, momentarily confused at the number he sees before realising that of course, just because Rufus wasn’t permitted to take any tech of his own with him it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t. He opens the message and is surprised to see it contains a photo, and he grins uncharacteristically before actually laughing to himself.

The picture is of one Rufus Shinra, Vice President of Shinra Inc., somewhat inebriated in Costa Del Sol. He is surrounded by the glow of Christmas lights and cuddled up to a giant stuffed chocobo, and both have matching Christmas hats, and he is smiling hazily down the camera. A “Merry Christmas” is written across it in the Vice President’s own usually-tidy handwriting, and the message typed below it simply reads: “We miss you too”.

Tseng shakes his head ruefully and looks up at the clock. Two days and three hours until they’re back.


	5. Office Party (Think Of All The Fun I've Missed)

“The executives' year-end party is tonight, don’t forget,” the President had reminded him. “You’re not obliged to go, of course. I know you’re more the …”

There is an awkwardness as the President looked him up and down, waving a hand vaguely at him.

“… _solitary_ type,” is the phrase he carefully chooses. Tseng can translate, and he knows that by “solitary” he is referring to how well he gets along with the other Directors - or doesn’t, as the case may be. He is also acutely aware that _“You’re not obliged”_ translates directly into _“You will be expected there whether you like it or not”_ , and they both know he would rather not. He misses the straight talk of Basement Three, where Reno would probably tell him where exactly to shove his formal party and Rude would be stifling a laugh.

“I’ll be there Sir,” Tseng answers, a curt nod, a tight, polite smile.

“You know you’ll still technically be on duty though, remember,” the President continues, and Tseng has to once again fight back the urge to channel his second-in-command and tell him what he really thinks. “I still expect you to be on call, and I need you fresh for tomorrow. Rufus will be returning in the morning and I want him to be escorted to our dinner in the evening. There will be paparazzi at the house - if any of you have to end up in the photos, I’d rather it was you. You understand, I’m sure.”

He is referring to their appearances, of course. The President doesn’t trust Reno to turn up in an appropriately fitting suit, doesn’t trust Rude not to be grinding his teeth or rolling his eyes on camera. Tseng doesn’t entirely trust _himself_ to not get “lost” on the way to the dinner and just ditch the whole thing entirely, not particularly enjoying his team being passively insulted in such a way.

Alas, he has _tonight's_ event to fantasize about ditching first. He bites back his displeasure at the comments and nods again, being mindful not to flex his hands at his sides or grit his teeth.

“Of course, Sir,” he replies politely. “I’ll be sure not to let Heidegger ply me with too many drinks, that is his normal ploy,” he says, an attempt at being jovial that both of them know is entirely fake.

“Good. Enjoy the evening, and I’ll be seeing you with my son tomorrow.”

~

He is two drinks in - alternated with plain tonic water, of course - and he hates everyone here. To be fair he hated everyone before his first drink, and he had begun to hate them a little less _after_ the first, but then he gave up trying to see them all in a positive light after the second. It is an expensive bar they’re all in, the whole floor having been rented out for the department directors and a few other up and coming company hot shots, and they all seem somehow easier to dislike in their finer outfits. Reeve had been the closest he had to decent company and Tseng had enjoyed having him to sit and talk with, but the older man had long since been dragged away by a positively giddy Palmer, who was dressed in the most hideous purple velvet suit and rambling something incoherent about “budgets” and “possibilities”. True to expectations Heidegger had been making frequent appearances, offering him drink after drink and wanting to discuss work. His over-keen friendliness is uncharacteristic and utterly transparent - Tseng knows he is wanting him to put a foot wrong, wanting him to accept too many drinks and spill something unsavory about his team, maybe make some critical error of judgement himself that gets him pulled up in front of the President. _“You look like an overstuffed Christmas stocking”_ is what he wants to say, noting the man’s hideous dark red outfit with gilded gold details. “I’m fine thank you, honestly, I’m still technically on duty after all” is what he _does_ say, internally delighting in the other man’s frustration at his professionalism.

He keeps making eye-contact with Scarlet, who he gets the impression is watching him just as closely as he is watching everyone else. Now Scarlet is an exception to the rule, he thinks to himself, noting her long dark green dress, no less revealing than normal but mercifully less garish. There is something he finds quite refreshing about the Director of Weapons Development in that she, unlike the others, makes no secret about the games she plays. He has crossed her path on a few occasions now, and she his, and every interaction is like a subtle game of chess, each of them thinking two interactions ahead. If there was ever a coup against the President - and oh, how he has dreamed - Scarlet is simultaneously the first and last person he’d want on his team. She is ruthless and knows how to get a job done without hesitation, and as a Turk with a fair number of hits under his own belt he can appreciate that. She would also be the first person to take the dagger out of her enemy’s chest and plunge it right into her partner’s back though, and the analogy makes Tseng shudder where he sits, this too being uncomfortably familiar. She notices the shudder when no one else would, and winks subtly across the room as if she knows what he was thinking. Hell, she probably does. He is the first to look away, and he orders his third drink. The night is too young.

He has been joined by Professor Hojo, and the scientist has been too close, too keen, and full of too many prying questions about Reno’s speed and Rude’s strength, so it is no small mercy when he hears his phone ring loudly in his pocket. He has never been more thankful to be on duty and realises that he doesn’t care what he is needed for. Is there a fire? Has there been a break-in? Has the President heard rumours of yet another illegitimate child who needs putting down? He mentally chastises himself for the last one, that being a step too far for even him, and he holds his phone up to the over-keen scientist to explain that he has to end the conversation here. Hojo grumbles and Tseng watches him leave, waiting until he’s a safe distance away before he looks down at the phone himself.

It’s not the number he was expecting, and he frowns in concern.

“Sir?” he answers, keeping his voice level despite his suddenly racing thoughts.

“Tseng,” the voice responds, clearly amused, “Does the sight of my number always make you panic? I can hear the worry in your voice.”

Tseng isn’t sure if the amusement in Rufus’s voice is reassuring or infuriating, and he slumps with a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I haven’t heard from you in days,” he explains, “It’s the middle of the evening and I get a call from you out of the blue, can you blame me for worrying?”. He realises Scarlet probably noticed him slump and he turns away, leaning his other elbow on the bar instead. “A certain level of concern when you call is almost literally in my job description.”

“You heard from me yesterday, I sent you a photo.”. Tseng can hear the pout in his voice, and he fights to suppress a small smile of his own. He takes a sip of his drink instead, looking furtively over his glass across the rest of the room. “Anyway, I just wanted to see how everything is going there. You ask your boys for updates every day but we don’t get to hear anything from you.”

“There’s nothing to report,” Tseng says, finishing his drink, relaxing somewhat knowing that nothing untoward is happening. “I’ve been on a leash, figuratively speaking -”

“- kinky -”

“- I said _figuratively_. And so I’ve been mostly tied to HQ in case I’m needed. How has it been over there? How are Reno and Rude? I’m hoping they’ve behaved …”

“It could be worse,” is the nonchalant reply. “I mean the weather’s great, which is starting to bore me now, and the water’s great, which is also getting incredibly boring. Not being near my father is always positive mind you …”

Tseng has risen to his feet while Rufus speaks, moving to the side of the room to hear better. He hovers near the door before stepping just outside it and into the corridor, letting it close and shutting out most of the sound of the party. “That’s better,” he hears Rufus say, “I could barely hear you wanting to escape over the sound of all that fun.”

Tseng laughs before he can stop himself, and he smooths his hair back down as he regains his composure. He glances over his shoulder through the glass panels in the door, and as expected he catches Scarlet looking in his direction curiously. He turns away and starts pacing idly down the corridor.

“Fun is one way to put it,” he begins, “I’m starting to get the impression Hojo wants to do some pretty sinister things to my Turks, and I’m not talking about the kind of things you’d normally think about.”

“How rude,” Rufus replies, faking chagrin, “I don’t think those things about all of you, you know.”

“How have they been?” Tseng asks, “Reno and Rude, I mean.”

“They’re good. I mean, they do their job very well and you have nothing to worry about with regards to my safety. I am very much intact.”

“What have you been up to?”

Rufus begins to regale him with tales of the last five days, stories of morning runs along the waterfront with Dark, of Reno getting sunburned and of Rude risking heatstroke before they could convince him to consider taking just his jacket off. He tells him about the palm trees strung with festive lights, about the local sherbet ice cream they had on Christmas day, and about the colour-coordinated drinks they had at some strange basement bar they’d found a few nights prior. He doesn’t tell him exactly how many of those drinks they’d had though, or about how he had to call Dark off a stranger after she’d misinterpreted an order from Reno, or the night they had lost Rude for three whole hours before he turned up again, utterly nonchalant but wearing someone else’s shades.

He doesn’t tell him just how much he has warmed to the two of them, and how comfortable he has found himself around them. He also doesn’t tell him how concerned they were for him on Christmas day, and how they spoke about him as more than just their boss.

He thinks Tseng already knows, anyway.

Tseng realises that, as he’s been listening, his feet have continued to walk him down the corridor and in fact to the main lobby of the building, and he lets himself out onto the street. The cold air hits him hard, and he thinks about how it couldn’t be much more different than where Rufus is calling from. It’s a relief to hear that everything has gone as well as it has, that no one has killed anyone or in fact been killed themselves. It is an even bigger relief to know that they are all coming back to Midgar in barely more than twelve hours.

“I’ve missed you,” he says suddenly, not really realising what he’s said until it comes out but not regretting it once it’s out there.

He can feel Rufus’s smile on the other end of the phone, and hear it in his reply too. It fends away the cold of the city air, and fills him with the warmth of Costa Del Sol itself.

“I’ve missed you too.”

They let the statements hang in the air between them, bridging the hundreds of miles from seaside resort to metropolitan capital. It is Rufus who speaks first, breaking the silence with a soft laugh. If Tseng didn’t know better, he would say it sounded almost self-conscious.

“I should let you go, I dread to think of the fun you’re missing out on,” the Vice President says, and Tseng chuckles gently too.

“I wonder,” he says, raising an eyebrow. He looks to the wet stone pavement for a moment and puts his professional face back on, packs that sentimentality away just for a moment. “I hear you’re due back around eleven tomorrow. Reno and Rude will see you back to yours and I’ll be there to pick you up again in the evening. Formal dress,” he reminds, “For the cameras at least. Sir.”

“Noted, _Tseng_. I suppose we’ll be seeing you tomorrow then. Enjoy the rest of your night, and don’t let the scientists bite.”

And with that Rufus hangs up, and Tseng is left with the dead dial tone. He slips his phone away and shakes his head ruefully at himself, not quite realising how the five days of solitude had made him miss his companions so much. He glances at his watch and realises how long he’s been away from the bar, and thinks of how he should go back. Scarlet will be looking for him soon, he thinks. Reeve might want someone to pull him away from Palmer and his talk of cuts and mergers. Heidegger will be looking for any excuse to land him in trouble, and the longer he’s gone the easier those excuses will be.

He should go back, he thinks.

He sighs, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and begins walking away from the building, and with every step he feels less and less obligation to join them again. They are not his people, after all. His people will be returning to him tomorrow. His feet take him not back to the bar, nor even to Basement Three. He heads in the direction of his own home.


	6. Welcome Home

“And what exactly is that?”

“It’s a chocobo.”

Tseng cocks his head.

“Well I can see that. Why do you have it, is what I suppose I mean to ask.”

“We won it at Costa, yo,” Reno replies, giving it a squeeze, “And it’s going in the office. No arguments. It’ll cheer the place up. We can get it a suit if that’s what you’re into.”

Tseng exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“To think, just ten minutes ago I’d been missing you. How times change.”

“And we love ya too,” Reno responds, throwing his boss a cheeky wink as he deposits the stuffed toy in the corner of the room. He falls into his chair with a dramatic and satisfied sigh and kicks his feet up, Tseng watching him with thinly veiled despair. “What have we missed?”

“Not a thing,” Tseng says simply, and he begins to update them as best he can on the very few events that have happened. He is infinitely more entertained by just how sunburned the redhead has gotten himself, triangle of scorched red beaming through his open shirt, and by watching Rude subtly swap out the shades we was wearing for a pair of his own from his own drawer. In this one action the taller man seems to relax, sinking into his own seat adjacent to Reno’s, and Tseng feels himself relax as he speaks too. He really doesn’t have anything of _value_ to update them with but it does feel good to speak comfortably to someone, not cursing at a training room hologram or dancing a two-faced verbal tango with another Director.

When he has finished Reno’s eyes have glazed over, and it takes him an extra second to realise that the room has fallen silent and that two pairs of eyes are now on him.

“Oh, you finished?” he says, and Tseng would be angry at how shamelessly rude the response is if he hadn’t been so otherwise deprived of interaction. He settles instead for raising an eyebrow silently, which does do a pretty good job of making Reno clear his throat and sit up straighter. “I’m sorry, Chief, what I mean is -”

“-what he means is that it sucks you had to rot around here for a week when you should’ve been with us,” Rude cuts in smoothly, and Reno nods over his shoulder. “I think you could’ve used the downtime.” Tseng purses his lips thoughtfully, unable to disagree with the pair of them. Rude stretches with a groan and rocks back in his seat. “Anyway, you got a busy night ahead with the Vice President, isn’t that right?”

Reno chokes, and there is nothing even slightly subtle about it. Tseng’s eyebrow is raised again in his direction before he looks back pointedly at Rude.

“If you’re referring to their dinner tonight, then yes, I do have a busy night ahead,” he says plainly, and his face falls into a frown, “And to be honest with you I’m not particularly looking forward to it. I know Rufus isn’t at least. It’s not going to be the best way to wrap up the year, that much is for certain.”

“Well you know what we’re going to say …” Reno starts with a sing-song tone in his voice.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Tseng says, tipping his head, “Offer’s always open, et cetera …” They are referring of course to Rude’s now infamous New Years parties. Every year he hosts one, and every year since they’ve known him they’ve extended the invite to their fellow Turk. Every year that invite gets turned down, of course, but even just asking has become part of the annual tradition now, a running joke.

“Be there or be square,” Rude says, pushing his shades up, “We’ll get you there some day.”

“That tone of confidence …” Tseng comments, rolling his eyes, and Rude flashes him a winning smile.

~

It isn’t a particularly long drive from Shinra HQ to Rufus’s apartment, especially with the route Tseng has chosen to pick the Vice President up that evening, but it is a fair distance between Rufus’s apartment and the President’s mansion, and every mile they drive feels like thirty with how uncomfortable the journey is. Tseng had been looking forward to seeing the other man, but it is plain to anyone just how resentful the Shinra heir is, and he is silent in the back of the sleek car Tseng is driving them in. Tseng tries to tell him he looks good, and he really does, sharp white suit with lavender accents, but Rufus doesn’t respond. Tseng says that at least it’s only three of them for dinner rather than a whole extended family affair, but Rufus doesn’t even look up. Eventually the Turk settles lamely for _“It’s only going to be for a few hours and then it’s over with for another year,”_ , which is what makes Rufus finally look up at him in the rear view mirror.

“Stop trying to make this better,” he snaps suddenly, and it throws Tseng off guard. He is used to the Vice President’s short temper but it is normally wrapped in sarcasm, cold and cynical, where the Rufus currently sat in the back of his car is tense and on edge, arms folded tightly across himself. Tseng falls silent as ordered, but his gloved hands tighten on the steering wheel. It’s his job to keep the other man safe, and when everything about the blonde sat behind him is screaming vulnerability it is everything he can do to not slam on the brakes, about turn and take him back to his apartment, or hell, all the way back to Costa Del Sol. The rest of the drive is conducted in silence, Rufus staring resolutely out of the window, Tseng’s jaw set.

~

The long driveway leading up to the gates of the mansion is swarming with paparazzi, clusters of photographers and journalists on each side all clambering for one last photo, one last scoop to see the year out. Tseng looks back in the mirror and sees Rufus eyeing them all, taking stock, almost like he’s counting them. It’s a relief, to be honest, his resentful stare being better than the empty gaze he had been directing out of the window on the way here, and against better judgement Tseng hazards a few words.

“Ready to go, Sir?” he asks carefully, and Rufus’s eyes narrow. He takes a deep breath in and lets it out hard, and nods in the mirror towards the Turk.

“Let’s go,” he says.

Tseng moves to the car door to let him out, and he sees the change in him instantly. His shoulders are still back, chest proud as ever, but there is a stiffness in there betraying how forced it is when normally it would be second nature. His back is straight and his eyes are bright, but something behind the steely blue is shuttered off, entirely disengaged. Beneath a long white suit sleeve Tseng can see a thumb dig against a forefinger, the Vice President’s public-facing equivalent of grinding his teeth. His jaw is set, and in photos it will look proud, but to someone who knows him as well as Tseng it shows nothing but tension and resentment.

Camera flashes blind their path as they approach the door, Tseng just half a pace in front of Rufus. Some shout for his attention, mostly _MISTER VICE PRESIDENT!_ but with the occasional _RUFUS!_ thrown in brazenly. It is the questions the turn Tseng’s stomach the most. One voice shouts _“Mister Vice President, what are your thoughts on the deal happening at Junon?”_ , another shouts _“Rufus, is it true you’ve found a wife to finally settle down with?”_. _“Vice President, what do you think about the rumours about you not being the only heir to the Shinra empire?”_ is the one that really makes Tseng have to bite his tongue, and he doesn’t know how Rufus doesn’t lash out behind him.

“Welcome home,” Rufus mutters bitterly behind him, and despite the knife on his belt and the gun at his hip, Tseng has never felt more unable to help.

President Shinra opens the door for them (when they get there), and Tseng steps aside so the two can be photo’d walking in together. The photos don’t catch the lack of interaction, the resentful silence, the absence of warm familial greeting, only the President’s arms held out wide and welcoming, and Rufus’s tight, practiced smile. When enough photos have been taken they retreat to the quiet indoors, and Tseng locks the door for them, shutting the crowds out.

~

The dining room is huge, too big for the three people sat in it. Tseng is standing outside on door duty, and after nearly a week with Turks at his side at every moment Rufus feels incredibly vulnerable without any of them. He has one side of the extravagantly set table to himself, opposite his father’s new piece of fluff (or flavour of the month, or bit on the side, whatever he wants to call her); he can’t help but notice she looks suspiciously like Scarlet, and he doesn’t think for a second she is more than five years older than he is himself. She’s attractive and she knows it, and he wonders if his father can see through her as easily as he can. His father sits on his left, leaving half of the table empty, space for at least another three people at the other end. He thinks of the rumours he hears about long lost brothers, family below the plate. He thinks of Tseng, Reno and Rude, who could definitely fill those spare three seats as well. He thinks of being anywhere other than here, bites the insides of his cheeks, and wills the evening away.

The starters come and go with little drama, and he is honestly surprised that the mood around the table is amiable, if of course somewhat tense. He learns that the woman who has his father wrapped around her perfectly manicured little finger has a name and that that name is Cassandra, and his stomach does a disgusted flip every time his father calls her “Cassie”. It isn’t until the main course he learns that he wasn’t far off with regards to her age, learning that she is on fact only three years his senior, and somehow his appetite shrinks with every predictable detail he learns about her, with every simpering laugh that escapes her red lips, and with every time she flicks her long pale hair. She was born in the North, moved to Junon to study, and finally came to Midgar to further her very own start-up, and Rufus wonders exactly how his father doesn’t see through her whole persona. The President is quick to point out that Rufus never studied, and wouldn’t know the first thing about creating his own business, and in front of him they joke about what will happen to Shinra Inc. when it eventually falls into his hands.

He can’t escape the criticism when dessert is served, an extravagantly-presented pavlova layered with colourful tropical fruit and lashings of sweet, thick cream. Rufus barely manages two delicate spoonfuls before having to lay his cutlery aside, and his father jokes to Cassandra ( _Cassie_ ) that he is too vain to allow himself to eat any more. Rufus grits his teeth and forces a smile, but keeps his eyes fixed resolutely ahead.

“I’m just incredibly full from the main course,” he forces out. What he really wants to say is that the tension and effort that has gone in to not biting at the President’s abusive comments is making him feel physically sick.

“You barely even ate half of that too!” his father exclaims, “Imagine having nothing more important to worry about that the size of your waist,“ he says, and he shares a laugh with Cassandra. Rufus picks up the small silver spoon again, but with no intention of eating. The tries to focus on the shine of the metal, on the cold against his skin, the hard edge against his thumb. He tries not to focus on what it would feel like being plunged into his father’s eye, or pushed deep, deep into his throat.

“He just doesn’t understand gratitude,” the President says to his lady friend, gesturing to the dishes laid across the table, “He doesn’t understand the work that goes in to everything we’ve provided for him. If it wasn’t for everything we poured into his upbringing -”

“Don’t give yourself the credit,” Rufus murmurs quietly. The room is silent, and all he can hear is his own heart pounding hard in his chest. His hands are shaking. He tries to still them, and it doesn’t work.

“What was that?” the President says. Rufus shouldn’t answer, he knows this. He shouldn’t answer, but his hands are shaking and his blood is running cold, and he can’t feel the metal digging against his thumb anymore.

“You are not _half_ of what I’ve become,” he spits viciously, and pushes his plate back. “You’re damn right that someday your empire is going to fall into my hands, and when the world sees what I can do with it they’ll see what a _joke_ you’ve been all along. You know _nothing_.” He is on his feet before he knows it, acting entirely on autopilot. He addresses Cassandra directly for the first time in the evening. “He’s not as bright as he thinks he is,” he says, referring to his father, “So you play him as hard as you want. He won’t see it coming, and I’ll give you a head start.”. He stomps towards the door, not turning when the President calls out to him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he insists angrily.

“ _Home_ ,” Rufus spits, and slams the door as he leaves.

Tseng doesn’t miss a beat as Rufus storms out, neither interrupting nor asking questions, instead falling silently in line with him and matching his stride. They only pause when they get to the car, Rufus stood by the passenger door rather than the back.

“Sir?” Tseng asks, and in that one word are a million questions.

“We’re going,” Rufus says roughly, and it is the obvious answer but Tseng didn’t want to assume. Before he opens the doors though he opens his mouth to say something, closes it again, and instead gestures at the Vice President’s hand. Rufus looks down and curses loudly at the item still squeezed tight in his palm.

“ _Fucking spoon_ ,” he growls. He hurls it with all his might, and is satisfied at the crack it leaves in the window it collides with. He gets into the passenger seat, and they begin to drive.

For the first five minutes they say nothing, the silence permeated only by Rufus trying to steady his breath, breathing through the adrenaline comedown. It is only when he seems to have settled again that Tseng chances speaking, answering the other man’s unspoken question.

“I heard everything,” he says quietly, and while Tseng has never been a joking man there is a serious tone to his voice that sits heavy in Rufus’s chest. The weight doesn’t crush him though; it feels like an anchor. Tseng is quiet a moment longer, giving Rufus room to answer, unsurprised when he doesn’t. “You don’t have to listen to him,” he continues, glancing over quickly before training his eyes back on the road. He thinks of the lightness in the blonde’s voice just the day before, the smile on his face in the photo he sent, and how it all contrasted with the Rufus he drove on the way to the mansion they’re now driving away from. “… we’ve got you,” he concludes quietly.

Rufus doesn’t think twice about Tseng getting out of the car with him when they get to his building. He doesn’t think of the Turk accompanying him in the elevator either, or of how he walks into the living room behind him, uninvited. He is altogether too wrapped up in the shock of the argument that just happened to pay attention to his surroundings at all, and it is only when the other man is against him, lips insistent on his own, that he really registers the other man being there.

“Tseng …” he starts. His thoughts are still racing, but they slow to a single point as he focuses on the dark eyes in front of him, the warm lips just a breath away from his own, and hand that comes up to cradle his cheek. He marvels at the man’s audacity - here he is, having a violent crisis after having stormed out of his father’s own dinner party, wanting nothing more than to rage and lash out, and the Turk thinks he can just walk up to him and calm him down with a few kisses? Distract him with a gloved hand at his hip, not pulling him close but not letting him go either?

Well he’s damn right.

“I missed you,” Tseng says simply, sincerely. The statement goes straight to Rufus’s damaged ego.

“How much?” he asks. He plays with the Turk’s hair, watching how his eyes aren’t leaving his lips.

“So much,” Tseng answers plainly, but when he leans in to kiss Rufus again the blonde leans away, pushing his shoulders and taking a step back. He frowns, questioning.

“Then show me,” Rufus says. He feels small, and he feels vulnerable, and he revels in the power he feels when he sees the effect his words have on the other man. “Take that suit off, and show me.”

~

Every part of Rufus is tingling, from the tips of his fingers right down to his toes. He falls back down to the sheets, thoroughly spent, fingers still tangled in the other man’s hair, and in the sweaty afterglow Tseng buries his face into the crook of Rufus’s shoulder.

“Welcome home,” he murmurs gently against his skin, and above him, just out of his sight, Rufus smiles.


	7. Cheers

There are several things Rude’s New Years parties should be known for. For one, his cooking is incredible - family recipes, he says simply by way of explanation, plus hints and tips passed down from his grandparents when he was growing up, always wanting to help in the kitchen. For another, there is always great music on the go, but to be fair that is normally a playlist carefully curated by Reno rather than Rude, the biggest hits from the year just gone and always some classics from twenty years prior, but _never_ any jazz ( _“Pretentious noisy tuneless bullshit”_ he would say, providing his boss is out of earshot).

The kind of things Rude’s parties _are_ known for, however, are things most people would rather forget. Rude wishes he could forget the sight of his partner stood on his coffee table, drunkenly declaring that Veld needed a striptease. Reno himself wishes he could forget delivering it. Needless to say that after that particular year things had settled down significantly, and for the most part their parties now are low-key and quite quiet, the previous year in fact just being the two of them, a homemade dessert and a lot of beer.

They have an addition this year, Elena having come back from her Christmas away, and having an extra person in the apartment brings a whole new energy to the evening. Rude has humbly given her half of his kitchen and she is prepping a classic banora apple strudel, while Rude himself is putting a fresh loaf of sharing bread in the oven. Reno is mixing cocktails in the corner, which is a skill that has always confused Rude - Reno has the uncanny ability to make everything he does look accidental, and yet it always comes together like a masterpiece. His drinks are no exception, which is why this early in the evening they are already somewhat merry, relaxed enough to be singing duets across the room at each other.

~

The evening wears on, Elena’s strudel cooked to perfection and cooling on the worktop, empty bottles from Reno the resident mixologist stacked next to the fridge, and the three of them have retreated to the front room where Rude has pulled a projector out. They are part way through a cheesy assassin movie (every Turk’s favourite) when there is a knock on the door, and all three of them turn to face the sound. Rude looks first to Elena and then to Reno, who silently puts his glass down and reaches for the gun he knows is strapped to the underside of the couch. Elena rises to her feet and moves away so Rude can cautiously step forward, and, holding his breath, he checks through the peephole.

“What … the … fuck ..?” he breathes, and he flings the door open.

“Chief??” Reno exclaims, clicking the safety back on and dropping the gun down to his side.

“Sir???” Elena asks, and she too relaxes as she rushes forward to join Rude at the door.

They aren’t sure which is more confusing, the sight of their boss - who has never attended a party with them in his life - stood in the doorway, or the fact he is joined by Vice President Rufus Shinra. The two are coordinating, Tseng in a long black coat and turtleneck and Rufus in white, fluffy collar turned up about his neck like a scarf, and just behind him Dark is stood waiting obediently, tail wagging at the sight of the familiar Turk in front of her. Her normal heavy chain has been swapped out for a glittery purple collar.

“Do you think it’s a bit much?” Rufus asks Rude as an icebreaker, watching the other man’s eyes take in the sparkle, and next to him Tseng smiles in greeting.

“Every year you remind me the offer’s always open,” he says fondly, and Rude starts to smile too despite himself, “Got room for two more?”

“And Dark,” Rufus adds. Rude’s smile turns into a broad grin and he steps back, extending his arm out to the rest of the room.

“Come on in,” he says warmly, and they shrug off coats as they step across the threshold.

~

By the time the film finishes they are each several of Reno’s cocktails in, laughing and joking comfortably about the unrealistic portrayals of hitmen in the media ( _“I mean, I for one wouldn’t expect dramatics like that from_ any _of you!”_ Rufus declares. _“We’re professionals,”_ Tseng reassures him with a pat on the leg. _“And we clean up after ourselves,”_ Rude adds, criticising the crime scene left behind by one of the protagonists). They have eaten well, and Elena’s dessert has gone down a treat, and as the credits roll Reno checks his watch and jumps up in a panic.

“Shit, it’s eleven fifty!” he declares, and no one seems quite as panicked as he is. He looks somewhere between disappointed and frustrated at them all. “Are you honestly telling me that after the year we’ve had we’re not going to toast in the new year properly?”. There is a general mumbling of agreement and they all shuffle around, taking to the kitchen where they trade various half-finished cocktails for glasses of champagne ( _“Mideel vintage,”_ Rufus had said as he handed it over as a gift upon arrival). There is a familiar stuffed chocobo sat in the corner of the room, currently wearing a holographic party hat, and Rufus insists on pouring it a small cup too in the name of a tradition only he, Reno and Rude are aware of.

The clock continues to tick down and the five of them stand in a circle, silent for a moment as they each consider what to say. It is Tseng who breaks the ice, shrugging and holding his glass aloft.

“To … _late night meetings_ ,” he declares, knocking Rufus’s shoulder next to him and smirking slyly across at Reno, who instantly begins to blush a bright red. Rude laughs next to him, a deep rumble, and Elena remains clueless but finds the laughter infectious nonetheless.

“Well then,” Reno coughs, “To, uhh … to Rufus Shinra joining ranks, I guess!”. He raises his glass too, and heads nod approvingly around their little circle. Elena steps forward next, _Happy New Year_ deely-boppers waving on her headband.

“To the Turks!” she declares, “Past and present!“, and there is a quiet _Hear hear_ from Tseng on her left.

“To friends,” Rude says sincerely after a pause, meeting eyes with each one of them in turn, and the phrase is echoed around the circle. Then there is only one person left, and they all look expectantly towards Rufus. He is quiet, looking thoughtfully into the gentle fizz of his drink, and a soft smile crosses his features as he shakes his head to himself.

“This is ridiculous,” he murmurs ruefully, laughing self-consciously and rolling his eyes. He slumps and pushes his hair back, and Tseng nudges him subtly. The blonde sighs, nods, and steps forward, raising his glass.

“To family,” he says at last, and all around him gentle smiles fill the room. Four other glasses are raised to meet his own with a gentle _clink_ , and out on the streets of Midgar bells start to ring, cheers start to echo, and fireworks fill the sky in celebration.

“Happy new year,” he says fondly to the people gathered around him, his friends, his family, and his Turks.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos guys, which have all helped so much through the end of this year - some day 2020 will be just a memory, and this end note will be embarrassing, old and dated, but it really means a lot that you've seen this silly story through with me. Happy new year to you all!


End file.
